


on things unsaid

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22622566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: “Your food’s going to get cold, Sylvain,” she tells him, voice soft and gentle.He hums, stabs his fork down without looking. He gets a piece of food up and swallows it down before he speaks. “No one’s seen him out of his room yet, right?”He knows he doesn’t need to specify.Mercedes sighs. “No. Annie’s got a basket going for him. We were going to bring it to him after dinner.""I can bring it to him. Let me, instead.".It's been two days since the Kingdom Army has returned to the monastery from Gronder Field. No one has been able to convince Felix, mourning the loss of his father, to come out of his room. Sylvain takes it upon himself to make sure he's not grieving alone.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 270





	on things unsaid

There’s muted excitement throughout the monastery grounds. That seems to be how it is whenever they return from a battle victorious. Losses are just a part of war; they all have had to learn to see the good when it’s in front of them.

While the Battle at Gronder should have made him feel giddy, joyous, all Sylvain feels is a building sense of dread. It’s nothing new, truly. He’s felt that way since Edelgard first declared war on the church, since Dimitri was declared a kinslayer and executed. He tries not to let it affect him too much. There’s still a lot to be done. Even with Dimitri seemingly turning back to himself, even with their eyes now set on their homeland instead of the gates of Enbarr, the battle had taken far too many losses. Far too many people he had known had perished on those fields, and he knows better than to think too positively.

Still, his thoughts matter little in the grand scheme of it all. They’ve only been back at the monastery for two days and he’s been doing his best to keep a smile on his face all the same. Sylvain’s at his best when his hands are busy. It’s only been two days, but there’s still a lot to do. He’s helped Mercedes and Manuela in the infirmary between his quick checks of the training grounds—the face he wants to see there never at the training dummies like usual—and has helped Annette and Ashe with rubble cleaning, checked with the professor on how Dimitri’s doing, too.

It’s unsettling to see the prince roaming the grounds and staying within the knights hall, instead of lurking in shadows and staring at the pile of rubble in the cathedral.

He wonders if Felix knows how their wayward prince is doing. Sylvain’s tried his dorm door multiple times and the most he had received was when he checked that morning. A terse, _“Leave me alone, Sylvain,”_ was growled at him through the heavy wood. Sylvain had taken the not-so-subtle hint and moved on, but he had counted it a small victory that Felix had been _speaking._

He’s not ready to give up yet. He knows Felix is grieving, knows he’s hurting. He’s not going to let him keep himself locked away in this self-imposed exile.

Sylvain considers his morning’s small victory enough of one, so that as he sits in the dining hall for dinner that evening, he can’t help but hope Felix will make his way out of his room to join them. He sits beside Mercedes, his plate largely untouched as his eyes wander to the doors. Annette had been there when he first arrived, but she had eaten her food with more gusto than Sylvain’s ever seen, leaving shortly after. Mercedes said she had been busy with something. Sylvain understands the feeling.

He chews at the inside of his cheek, eyes on the doors of the hall that are closest to the dorm’s steps. They haven’t opened for a while—most of the monastery’s residents have poured into the hall already. The few stragglers have filtered in through the doors leading to the gardens and courtyards behind him.

Sylvain lightly taps his fork against his plate. Mercedes rests her hand on his arm. He startles at the touch, but his eyes don’t look away from the door. Instead, he just makes a questioning noise.

“Your food’s going to get cold, Sylvain,” she tells him, voice soft and gentle.

He hums, stabs his fork down without looking. He gets a piece of food up and swallows it down before he speaks. “No one’s seen him out of his room yet, right?”

He knows he doesn’t need to specify.

Mercedes sighs. “No. Annie’s got a basket going for him. We were going to bring it to him after dinner. That’s why she was in such a rush to leave.”

“A basket?”

He can see Mercedes nod in his peripheral, her pale hair swishing with the movement. “With some small things to hopefully make him feel better. I’m just not sure how he’ll take it. When Annie tried to bring him some breakfast, he just told her to leave.” A small sigh escapes her again, as she brings her hand up to her chin. “He had the decency to at least use _please,_ but. . .”

“I can,” he says, looking to her.

Mercedes blinks at him. “You can what?”

“The basket.” Sylvain’s not making sense. He knows that. He clears his throat, tries again. “I can bring him some dinner and the basket. They’re serving teppanyaki, that’s practically his favourite. Let me go, instead.”

She smiles serenely, reaching up to push her hand in his hair, gently fluffing red strands. “Alright. Finish eating your food first, though. I’ll go get Annie.”

He hadn’t even noticed she was done eating. Sylvain eats like Ingrid eats, shoveling his food down. By the time he’s finished, getting a tray together for Felix, Annette appears like a whirlwind. Her hair’s messy, eyes wide and frantic, but she’s clutching a basket to her chest. Mercedes is behind her, hands at the ready in case Annette trips in her hurried pace.

“Ashe and Mercedes helped!” Annette declares. “Be sure to tell him that, okay?”

Sylvain nods, looking over the contents. There’s small baked goods wrapped up in parchment—“Not sweet, I promise. They’re rosemary and olive oil!”—and a new jar of sword polish. Ashe had left a book that he was _certain_ Felix would like. Sylvain has no idea if Felix will be in the mood for any of it, but he knows Felix likes Annette and Ashe. He holds his arm out for Annette to slip the basket on, up to his elbow, before he bends. He presses a kiss to the top of Annette’s head and one to Mercedes’ forehead before collecting the food tray he had prepped and heading out to the dorms. 

It’s thankfully no longer raining. The past couple days it had been a downpour, following the army all the way from the fields of Gronder back to the monastery. Fitting, he reasoned, but he’s thankful for the sun as he crosses in front of the greenhouse, heading up the stairs.

No one else is in the hall, not that he expected anyone to be. He makes his way past the doors until he almost reaches the end, stopping short in front of Felix’s. He sets the basket down by his feet and lifts his newly freed hand to knock.

“Felix?” he calls.

There’s silence as an answer. He tries the handle. It’s locked. He thinks he hears a muttered curse through the wood at the rattling of the doorknob, but he ignores it.

“ _Felix?_ Fe, c’mon, let me in.”

More silence.

“It’s just me,” he says, trying for a light tone. “I want to make sure you’re eating. No one’s seen you since we got back to the monastery. I doubt you have snacks stashed in there to survive. I even brought your favourite! It’s teppanyaki!”

He waits, listening intently. There’s not even audible shuffling inside. Felix is ignoring him, which isn’t something he’s unfamiliar with, but it’s not something he wants to deal with. Not now. 

Not when he knows Felix is hurting.

After a moment, Sylvain sighs, pressing his forehead to the door. “Listen, I’ve brought food and Annette and Ashe got you a few things. I’d rather not leave the tray of food on the ground of the hallway, so can you at least open the door to take this?”

There’s a brief pause before he hears a low, muffled creak. Then, a few shuffling noises and he hears the click of the lock. He waits, holding his breath, and hears Felix’s soft, “You can come in.”

Sylvain’s hand opens the door and he sticks his foot in the crack so it doesn’t slam shut as he swoops down to collect the basket. He carries both inside, nudging the door shut behind him as gingerly as he can with a boot and both hands full. The low light of the setting sun colours the room in reds and golds. Felix has tucked himself at the head of his bed, hair down and snarled about his shoulders as he hugs his knees to his chest. His chin rests atop one, his eyes looking pointedly out the window, away from Sylvain.

With Felix’s attention strayed, even on purpose, Sylvain takes a moment to look about the room. The bedclothes are a mess, and there are clothes scattered about. There’s empty mugs on Felix’s desk, a tea kettle he _knows_ is from Mercedes on the low cupboards beneath the window. He sees Felix’s pauldron, the leather still speckled with mud and blood, tucked in the corner next to his desk. The only things that seem to have been taken care of are Felix’s swords, propped in their rack along the wall.

Sylvain hums a noise, carrying himself to Felix’s bed. He holds the tray out, waiting. Felix’s eyes glance to him, glance down, then back away. He doesn’t move from where he’s curled up at the corner of his bed.

“Y’know, it’s just going to get cold if you don’t eat it.”

Felix’s mouth presses into a thin line. He glares unhappily up at him, his eyes bright through dark, messy bangs. After a moment, he unfolds his legs, just to cross them and takes the plate from atop the tray, making a grumpy noise. Sylvain leaves him to it, turning to set the basket next to the tea kettle before he starts tidying up. He can feel Felix’s eyes on him as he moves around, eating reluctantly. Sylvain knows he’s normally chattering non-stop, but he feels like Felix deserves to have a meal in peace.

"What about you?"

Sylvain's halfway through piling Felix's dirty clothes in the laundry hamper. He glances up, resting his hand against the wicker. "What about me?"

Felix takes another bite, finishes swallowing. He's not looking at Sylvain. "Did you eat?"

Sylvain smiles. "Yeah, 'course I did. I was waiting for you, but Mercedes said she hadn't seen you out and about yet. Annette was at dinner, too, but she wanted to finish getting your basket together."

"Mmn."

Sylvain finishes tidying up. He piles the empty mugs on Felix's desk together on the tray he brought the food on and when Felix is done eating, he grabs the plate from him to set aside before plopping on the bed. Felix huffs, pushing at his head when Sylvain flops next to his hips. Sylvain squirms a bit, getting comfy. He looks up to Felix, waggling his brows.

"Make yourself at home," Felix mutters, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, I plan to," Sylvain says. "Your mistake was letting me in. Now I'm not gonna leave."

Felix huffs another breath, crossing his arms and looking away. He jolts and Sylvain follows his gaze as he settles his hands underneath his head. The basket.

“Annette made some rosemary and olive oil scones for you,” he explains. “Mercedes helped. Ashe got you a book.”

A soft snort. “Of course he did.”

“I also saw some sword polish in there,” Sylvain says. “Pretty sure that was Mercedes, though.”

Felix doesn’t move. Sylvain lays back, looking up to the ceiling. “There’s also some news you’ve missed.”

“What news?”

“His Highness has changed his mind.”

Felix looks over sharply. “What?”

“We’ll be marching to Fhirdiad in a few weeks.”

Sylvain tilts his head, looking to him. Felix is staring at the bed beneath them, his eyes wide as he takes in the news. Sylvain watches as his chest swells with a breath, shoulders shuddering as he exhales it.

“Fhirdiad. . .”

“We’re going home,” Sylvain says. “Back to Faerghus.”

Felix nods, his eyes distant. After another shuddering breath, he speaks, voice a soft whisper. “My uncle. . .he gave me some of my father’s belongings.”

“Yeah?”

“I think—.” Felix licks his lips and looks away, folding his legs back up to his chest and resting his crossed arms on his knees. “My old man had other things he wanted me to inherit. I believe. . .” He trails off, trying to collect his thoughts. Sylvain lets him think over his words in peace. “He wanted me to ensure Dimitri ascends the throne.” A bitter laugh falls from his lips as Felix twists his face away from Sylvain. “I should’ve expected this. Even in death, all he gave a damn about was Dimitri.”

“Fe. . .”

“I’m angry,” Felix states. His voice wavers, his hands curling into fists. He’s still not looking at Sylvain. “I’m angry _and_ sad and I shouldn’t—. I shouldn’t feel this way.”

Sylvain’s mouth opens, closes. He shifts, sitting up and leaning back against the wall. He bends his left leg, knocking his knee against Felix’s shin, looking across the room. His eyes focus on the mugs as he speaks.

“I can’t tell you how you’re supposed to feel, Felix.”

A soft snort, that sounds like a choked noise when it gets caught. Felix runs his hand through his hair, only grimacing when his fingers get caught in tangles. Sylvain sighs, leaning over. When he drops his head to Felix’s shoulder, Felix only makes a noise, looking away instead of shrugging him off.

“Grief manifests in different ways,” he says. “Whatever you’re feeling, you’re allowed to.”

Felix’s shoulders tense. “Am I?” His question is bitter, not needing an answer.

Sylvain gives him one anyway.

“Would I lie to you?”

“. . .No.”

Sylvain sits back up, giving him the space he wants. He knocks his head lightly against the wall, looking up. "When I murdered Miklan, I felt. . .dread. Sadness that I probably shouldn’t have. Grief is. . . It’s weird."

Felix sniffles wetly, his face turned away. "You're awful at this."

"Yeah, but you love me anyway."

"Hmph." Felix wipes at his face. “Maybe.”

“C’mere,” Sylvain says, opening his arms. “Tell me all your feelings.”

Felix narrows his eyes at him, but the glare is ineffective with the red rims and tears watering them. “No.”

“Then come here so I can hug you.”

“No,” Felix repeats, but he leans over, dropping his head to Sylvain’s shoulder. Sylvain wraps his arms around him, ignoring Felix’s grumpy mutter, and drops himself to the bed, pulling Felix with him. _“Sylvain—”_

“Sssh.” Sylvain lifts one of his hands, going to work at the snarls in Felix’s hair. “It’s alright.”

There’s only a brief moment before Felix settles, tucking himself against Sylvain, his face pressed into his neck. There’s a small sniffle, then he feels hot tears against his skin. His other hand, still against Felix’s back, rubs small circles into his back. His fingers catch on a particularly harsh snarl, one that tugs Felix’s head slightly, and he murmurs an apology, which is met with a hiccupped sound.

“I miss him.”

“I know.” Sylvain presses a kiss to the crown of Felix’s head. “I know.”

It’s been a while since Sylvain has seen Felix cry. It’s been a while since Felix had _let_ anyone else see him cry. Sylvain can remember their youthful days, where he had always carried an extra handkerchief around for Felix in case he needed one. He always seemed to, back then, crying over the slightest upset. Sylvain had always been there to dry his tears. He’s glad he can still be relied on for that job.

They lay there in relative silence, Sylvain stroking through Felix’s hair while Felix sniffles and tries to muffle the sounds he makes into the skin of Sylvain’s neck. Felix stays atop Sylvain’s chest, his hands loosely fisted into the material of his shirt.

When Felix’s sniffles turn into hiccupped breaths, Sylvain slows his hand, shifting so he can wrap his arms around Felix’s waist and hold him steady. Felix keeps his face hidden, the top of his head tucked neatly underneath Sylvain’s chin.

“Sylvain?” His voice is thick, miserably grumpy.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Get your fucking boots off my bed.”

He laughs, a light peal of laughter in the otherwise silent evening. Sylvain twists, throwing his legs off the side of the bed. “Hey, at least it’s not muddy anymore. It’s been nice outside. Could be worse.”

A snort puffs out across Sylvain’s neck. “Shut up, Sylvain.”

Sylvain buries his face in Felix’s hair, murmurs a soft, “Yeah, love you, too,” and lets him settle against him.

The sunlight fades from oranges and reds to the deeper purples of night. Sylvain’s almost asleep, and he’s certain, based on how Felix’s breathing has evened out, that he’s asleep already. He’s definitely going to have cramped legs in the morning if they stay like this much longer, but Sylvain doesn’t mind.

Not for Felix.

Not when he’s hurting.

“Sylvain?” 

He’s almost asleep, can barely manage more than a murmured, “Hm?”

Felix’s voice is muffled against his skin, breath warm when he whispers, softly, “Thank you.”

He hears the words left unsaid, contents himself with just tightening his arms around Felix, pressing his face into his hair and breathing in the smell of _home._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm incapable of writing anything but people grieving, apparently. 
> 
> i'm also still really, really bad at tagging;;;;


End file.
